Smock Blogs

Fog’s a funny thing, floating low altitude clouds, sullied cotton candy, but it has enormous power, enough to get its own verb to describe what it can do. If we’re fogged in we can’t go anywhere: planes can’t fly, cars can’t drive, cruise ships can’t export soft colonialism to countries that wouldn’t survive without the influx of tourists hell bent on making everywhere in the world look the same in an unceasing drive for continuous comfort.

Fog at the lake this morning, made it look like wasn’t there. I’ve been fogged in lately, and by lately, I mean maybe the last three years, rowing the boat in a variety of directions, none of those leading to either a harbor or a clear passage to greater things. Some days the only thing I can hear is the oars creaking in the locks, and so I tend to the noise, keeping the machine oiled with kettlebells, walks, and words.

There’s progress: halting, yes, but progress all the same. Movement beyond just motion, a needle whispering a little further to the right. A little lost in the fog, I can row the boat. Even when the somewhere feels like nowhere, I dips oars again, and pull.